User blog:Squibstress/Epithalamium - Chapter 39
Title: Epithalamium Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual situations; teacher-student relationship (of-age); language, violence Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter 39 "Do you remember Tom Riddle?" Amelia Bones was the first unofficial visitor Alastor Moody had at St Mungo's after he lost his right eye. Although she wasn't part of the MLE team investigating the attack, she bluffed her way into his room using a combination of actual, Ministry-given authority and the authority she projected by the sheer force of her personality. And it didn't hurt that Marlene, who was a Healer in the Creature-Induced Injuries Ward, was friendly with the matron in charge of the secure ward where Alastor was recuperating. "Jealous, were you Moody?" Amelia asked, hands on her generous hips, when she came to a stop at the end of the young Auror's bed. "My eye is so lovely, you just had to have one for yourself?" Alastor just glared at his visitor as best he could with the bandage that enveloped the right portion of his face. Then he asked the question that had been plaguing him for the two days since he had landed in this hellhole of a hospital and that nobody he'd spoken to so far had been willing to answer. "Am I out?" Amelia didn't answer immediately. "Come on, Bonesy. You know everything that goes on in that place. What's McKinnon saying?" "Nothing that I'm privy to." "Damn it, Bonesy, give me a straight answer. Tell me: Am I or am I not still an Auror?" "Alastor, you'll be an Auror to your grave, whether or not MLE choose to let you keep the title. And I don't know if they will yet, but if I have any say in the matter, you stay. McKinnon is not unsympathetic, I think, but he's mad as hell that you got yourself injured during some extra-curricular field op. Don't bother denying it," she said when he opened his mouth to object. "Yeah, well … I wouldn't have got meself all pranged up if they'd pay a little attention to—" Amelia put up her hand, warning in the quirk of her eyebrow. "Being combative isn't going to help you keep your job, Moody." "And what would you suggest, Madam Bones? You're much better at the office end of things than I am." She considered for a moment. "Stick to your story: you thought the man who attacked you was breaking into Borgin's. Nobody who knows you believes it, but McKinnon will back you if you don't force him into a corner." "And what about Lestrange?" "You've got to drop that," she said. "Nobody will believe Romulus Lestrange would break into a shop. And nobody is going to care that you think the Lestrange brothers are up to something worse, either—at least nobody who wants to keep their job for long." "The bastard cursed me bad enough to take my eye. Doesn't that show—" "It won't fly, Alastor. The Lestranges are powerful, magically and socially. Don't try to tangle with them until you've got all your pixies in a row. You can't prove it was Romulus Lestrange, not without giving them a memory for the Pensieve, and then they'll claim you tampered with it. And it will raise questions about why you were following Lestrange without authorisation in the first place. All you'll achieve by accusing him is to discredit yourself." The injured wizard fell back against his pillow, knowing she was right. Amelia Bones usually was. Alastor was canny, but he had to admit that he had a tin ear for politics. And this time, because he had been angry, both at Mort Borgin's death and at the way the Ministry had written it off, he had abandoned the caution that had been beaten into him by the mentors who had seen his fire and talent and tried to temper it into something strong and useful. And he had paid dearly for it. Professor Merrythought would have strung him up by his skivvies, he reflected. And Merlin only knew what Greg McKinnon would have to say to him when he got back to the office. If he got there. "So I tell them I didn't see who it was cursed me," he said. "Exactly." "And then what? Just let that little prick continue on his merry way?" "Yes." His anger flared up as he remembered hearing Romulus Lestrange laugh just before Disapparating after dodging the hex that Moody, his good eye blurred by blood, had sent far wide of his mark. Alastor raised the flag one last time. "Bugger that, Bonesy, you—" "For the moment, Alastor. Leave it alone for the moment. You've drawn attention to yourself. Now, not only do the Death Eaters know you're on their case, but MLE suspects you're going rogue, and you know exactly how Edgecombe will deal with that. So lie low. Get yourself fitted with a new eye. Show them you can still do your job twice as well as wizards with two good eyes, because, believe me, you'll have to. In the meantime, give the Death Eaters time to slip up. And they will. If what you've told me is true, they've got some serious liabilities in the brains department—Macnair, Carrow …" Moody snorted. "Guess I could join 'em, then. Wasn't smart enough to avoid the bad end of Lestrange's wand." "Everyone gets caught now and again, Alastor. Even the best. You know that. You've been an Auror how long now?" "Seven years. Ten, counting internship." "And how many of the people who joined when you did are still working in the field?" "Two, if you include me." "So, either you're luckier than most, or better. Personally, I think it's both. You have the luck of your countrymen, Alastor Moody, but don't push it. And try not to feel too sorry for yourself; you managed to go a whole ten years before losing your eye. I didn't even keep mine a year." Alastor gave her feeble joke another of his snorts, this one appreciative. "When are they fitting you?" she asked. "Next week sometime, the Healer said." "Good. Send me an owl when you're set up. I'll give you some pointers on working with the prosthesis. We can spar a bit when you're ready. In the meantime, I'll beat the Bludger with McKinnon and Edgecombe. Try to help you hold on to your job." "Thanks, Amelia," said a very grateful and slightly humbled Alastor Moody. The witch grimaced. "Don't you start with this 'Amelia' crap. Only people who call me that are my grandmother and Minerva. Speaking of which, do you want to see her?" "Your grandmother?" Amelia smiled. "Now, that's the snot-nosed Alastor Moody I remember. I'm sparring with her on Sunday. I'll tell her to stop by if you're still here," she said. "Unless you'd rather I didn't." "Oh, no. I'd be delighted to entertain your granny. She'll get a kick out of the specially ventilated robes I'm wearing. They're all the rage in the shops at Diagon Alley, I hear." Reassured as to his state of mind, Amelia rolled her magical eye and headed for the door. "Later, Auror Moody." "Later, Auror Bones." ~oOo~ Minerva McGonagall appeared in Alastor's room just after noon on Sunday wearing a worried look that she tried to hide but that Alastor recognised immediately. "Remind me to complain about the lax security in this loony bin," he said, trying to set her at ease. "Amelia got me in," she said. "Alastor, what happened?" He told her the story he was now officially committed to: He had been in Knockturn Alley, trying to trace some cursed artefacts that had shown up in Muggle London recently, when he was caught by a Dark spell cast by a wizard or witch he never saw. Probably someone looking for revenge against the Auror known in certain circles as the "Azkaban Express", he said. Whether Minerva believed him or not, he couldn't tell from her face. To his relief and her credit, she didn't fuss over him much. She just asked how he was getting on, when he might be getting his artificial eye, and whether he needed anything while he recuperated from the curse. It gave him a little pain, talking with her like this. If he tried, he could almost imagine that she was still his girl, visiting her wounded warrior, and that he'd be returning to a house full of Minerva rather than to a flat full of empty carry-out tins and months-old copies of the Daily Prophet. Near the end of their affair, Alastor Moody had been gobsmacked by the realisation that he had fallen in love with Minerva McGonagall. He certainly hadn't intended it, and it had made him ill-tempered and, well … moody, because he knew perfectly well that she didn't feel the same way about him and never would. Part of it was that she resented the way he had soared to the top of the pile in the Auror ranks, while she had mouldered away mostly chained to a desk or a lab bench. When Alastor told her he couldn't do anything about it—he couldn't help having a willy any more than she could help having a quim—it only allowed her to transfer her perfectly righteous fury from the anti-feminist MLE to the decidedly pro-Minerva Alastor Moody. He knew it and said it anyway, hoping, he supposed, that her fury would spend itself faster if it had a direct and palpable target. The other part of what Alastor had thought of as "their problem" was that Minerva was in love with someone else. They never spoke of it, but he knew from all the subtle signals that people give off when they're suffering from an unrequited passion—signals with which Moody had gained more than a passing acquaintance himself—and he knew that its object wasn't him. She'd had her heart broken good and proper, and it was beyond the modest masculine endowments of an Alastor Moody to put it to rights. And so each of them had reverted to type, Alastor goading and needling with increasing desperation, Minerva exploding predictably at it. The two of them had had some spectacular blow-outs near the end, and eventually the time had come when the sex that resulted from them couldn't make up for the pre-requisite unpleasantness. He wasn't especially sorry when she had asked him to remove his few overnight things from her bedroom and bath—the law of diminishing returns had clearly been invoked weeks before—but he did feel pangs of regret now and again, and he was pleased when it became clear that he and Minerva would "always be friends", as the phrase is often put, but which rarely happens in practice. He did often wonder, though, whose shadow had been between himself and Minerva. About ten minutes into her visit, they were interrupted by the arrival of Albus Dumbledore. After a few minutes of pleasant chit-chat, Minerva excused herself to allow the two men to talk privately. Alastor's ears pricked up when Dumbledore told her, "We'll only be a few minutes. If you'll wait for me, I have a few things to discuss with you, Minerva, and it might be pleasanter to do it over tea today than in my office tomorrow. If you're free, that is." "I am," she said. "I'll meet you in the reception area." When she had gone, Albus just stood looking at Alastor expectantly. "Don't look at me that way. Makes me feel like a student called on your carpet again," Alastor said. "Considering that you behaved exactly as you used to at school, I should think it entirely appropriate." "All right, I mucked it up," Alastor conceded. "You can add your insults to my injury if you like. I'm a big boy. I can take it." Albus cast an Imperturbable Charm on the door before speaking again. "I thought we had agreed that you were going to stay out of it for the time being," he said. "I never agreed, and it isn't for you to tell me how to spend my time," Alastor said, which earned him a raised eyebrow. Alastor chuckled. "Is there something amusing?" enquired an irritated Dumbledore. "That look. It's straight off Minerva's face. It's the one she used to give me whenever she thought I'd been naughty in a way she didn't like." "That is neither here nor there. We were talking about your ill-advised and, may I say, amateurish attempt at espionage." "Come off it, Dumbledore. You can't tell me you think we should let these bastards go on without someone keeping an eye on 'em. They're dangerous. You and I both knew it before Lestrange's wand got the better of my head." "Lestrange?" Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "Yeah. Romulus, to be exact. Although either of his fecking brothers would have been happy enough to claim it." Dumbledore was silent for a few moments. "They're getting bolder," Dumbledore said at last. "Between Borgin's murder and the attack on you … I don't like it." "Yeah? Well that's two of us, anyway." "They seem to feel they can operate with impunity. It suggests a strong belief in their leader." "This … Lord Voldymort?" "Voldemort, yes." "Still haven't seen him. Leastways, not that I know of. I suppose it could be one of the Death Eaters we already know." "I don't think so." Alastor's good eye narrowed. "You know who he is, don't you?" "Not with absolute certainty, no. But I have a suspicion." "You going to tell me, or do I have to guess?" Albus considered for a moment before speaking. "Do you remember Tom Riddle?" "Sure. Slytherin. School hero. Prat. Always panting after Minerva. You think he's Voldemort?" "I think it's a definite possibility." "He'd be the type," said Alastor. "But what makes you think it's him? Why not any of the other Slytherin gits with pure-blood mania?" "Can you think of any that had his charisma? Or, frankly, his ability?" Moody thought about it. "Not really. He did always seem to have a band of toadies following him around, hanging off his every word like he was a Veela in heat. So, what do we do about him?" "I think we have to wait to see what he's up to. So far, we only have a murder we can't prove and an assault that just draws negative attention to the victim." Alastor looked gloomy. "Yeah. Sorry about that. I guess I left my brains at home that day." "I'm sorry you were injured, Alastor. But once you're back on your feet, I think it is advisable for you to continue your surveillance. But from a distance. They know you're watching them now, so it's no good following them about. Just keep your ear to the ground. Is there anyone you trust who could act as go-between with your contacts?" "Amelia Bones," said Alastor. "She's the only MLE officer who's copped to the problem, and a cannier witch you'd be hard-pressed to find." He didn't add that he'd already had several long discussions on the subject with her. "And you trust her to be careful?" "I'd trust her with my other eye." "Good," said Dumbledore smiling. He released the charm from the door, saying, "Take care of yourself, Alastor." "Oh, I will, Professor. Better not keep Minerva waiting," he added with a smile that didn't quite reach his remaining eye. ~oOo~ When Albus suggested that they Apparate to Godric's Hollow rather than repair to a Muggle tea shop, Minerva agreed readily. No sooner had Albus closed the cottage door behind them than they were in each other's arms. In between kisses, Minerva murmured, "I was … mmm … surprised to see you … oh! … in Alastor's room." "We had some business to discuss," said Albus, continuing his assault on her neck. He forestalled any further inquiry by putting his hands on her breasts and his tongue in her mouth. They moved quickly upstairs, and as Albus Banished her clothes, she said, "Your brother isn't apt to come barging in this time, is he?" Running his hands over her newly bare skin, he answered, "Not today. He only ever takes Mondays off. But just to reassure you …" He drew his wand and cast both a simple warding charm and an Imperturbable on the bedroom door before returning to his pleasant task. "Thank you," she said, taking the lapels of his robe in her hands. "Now, about these clothes …" Shortly thereafter, they were both naked on the bed, which creaked and groaned along with their movements, its protests eventually drowned out by the couple's moans and exhortations. When Albus finally finished, she held him to her as his breathing and heartbeat returned to their normal pace, and he felt as if nothing could touch them for those few, golden moments. He rolled off of her, closed his eyes, and fell asleep for a minute while she used the loo. When she returned, she snuggled up close to him again, and he felt her hands circling his chest. He pulled her even closer and threw a lazy leg over hers. She asked, "What was your business with Alastor?" "Oh, just a few things I've asked him to keep an eye on for me." "That's going to be a bit harder now," she said. "Poor Alastor. I'm sure he's worried about what's going to happen to his job. After what happened when Amelia was injured …" "Remember that Alastor Moody has been an Auror for almost a decade, and one of the most successful." "And a man." "Yes, I expect that will make it easier for him than it was for Amelia when she was injured. You were injured at the same time, I believe, weren't you?" "Yes. It was during an operation in the Ardennes. One we trainees really had no business carrying out, but by then, the French had no fighters left to speak of, and the Magical Allies were expected to hold the line with only our Aurors, what was left of the French force, the few German groups that could get out, and a number of stray Belgians." "Still, you managed," Albus said. "In the end, yes. But we couldn't have held much longer if you hadn't …" "Taken Grindelwald." "Yes. That must have needed incredible courage," she said softly. "I wouldn't call it courage. Desperation, maybe." "All the same, you did it. I remember—" She stopped. "You remember what?" he prodded. "It's silly. I remember how elated everyone was when the news came. But I was so wretched because everyone assumed you had been killed. I felt as if the world had collapsed around me and I'd never be happy again. It was like a Dementor's pall. I thought I might go mad." "I'm sorry," he said. "It was several weeks before I could get back. I was in hospital—a Muggle hospital in Dresden. They were wonderful. Quite decent to me despite what had just happened to them." "I saw photographs of the city. It looked horrific." "Yes. Yes, it was. Anyway, they saved my life. The Muggle doctor was a bit perplexed about how my leg healed so quickly," he said with a chuckle. "Poor fellow." "Is that where this came from?" she asked, tracing two fingertips along the waxy ridges of the scar that covered several inches around his left knee. "Yes." Minerva scooted down the bed and began kissing the scar, running her tongue along the white lines. He jumped. "Oi! That tickles!" She held his leg in place, soothing it with her hands. "Sorry." Looking at the scar, she said, "You know, Albus, your scar looks a bit like a map of the London Underground." "The London Underground?" "Yes. You know, the Muggle trains that run under the city." "I know, but how are you familiar with its maps?" "I spent some time in Tube stations during my stint as an Auror. I helped investigate an alleged ring of wizards trafficking in human virgins. I was supposed to be 'bait', I think." She snorted. "If only they had known," she added with a laugh. "Anyway, they were supposedly selling them to the vampires that lived in the tunnels. It turned out to be a hoax, but I did get quite familiar with a few of the Underground lines. Muggles really are quite ingenious sometimes." She frowned then, her mind returning to what Muggle ingenuity had wrought in Dresden the day Albus had been injured. She continued running her fingers along his scar. "Does it still hurt?" "Sometimes. When it's damp." "Which it always is, in the castle." After a few moments, he told her, "I thought about you, you know. At the end—or what I thought was the end." "You mean—" "Yes. When I was stuck in that factory, waiting to die. I thought about you and the time we had spent together. It was a comfort." "I'm glad." "I'm sorry I hurt you so, Minerva." She shimmied back up the bed and nestled herself into his arms. "It doesn't matter now," she said. "I understand why you had to do it." As he held her, Albus hoped he wouldn't have to do it again. The business with Riddle and his so-called "Death Eaters" was troubling, not least because of Tom's previous obsession with Minerva. Albus didn't know if Riddle still wanted her, but he suspected Riddle would take any opportunity to hurt her should it arise. Albus was determined that it shouldn't. He wanted to keep his life—what he thought of as his solemn obligation—fighting the Dark entirely separate from his other life, the one he had made at Hogwarts, which included teaching, and Minerva, and everything else that was good, but he knew it wasn't possible. All he could do was fight this new threat as best he could and hope he could keep Minerva out of it. If he couldn't … well, he supposed he'd burn that bridge when he came to it. For the moment, he just wanted to be lost in her for as long as circumstances—and Minerva herself—would allow it. ← Back to Chapter 38 On to Chapter 40→ Category:Chapters of Epithalamium